


terminal

by thebrotherswholoved



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety, Dads-to-Be, Decent Writing Who? IDK Her., Domestic Bliss, Fluff, Implied Top!Sam, M/M, MPreg-Verse, Mpreg, Oneshot, Protective Dean Winchester, Pseudo Canon, Schmoop, Short Thing I Did, TW: Mention of Car Wreck, Tumblr: thebrotherswholoved, Wincest - Freeform, Winchester Dialect™, domestic banter, implied bottom!dean, mpreg!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 00:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18953746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrotherswholoved/pseuds/thebrotherswholoved
Summary: flip a coin: mediocre-at-best pay-per-view or public access nonsense. that’s dean winchester’s world right now at ass-o’clock at night as he waits ‘patiently’ for his lover to return.oh, and there’s a tiny foot against his bladder—just an fyi.((mpreg fluff! I tried my best.))





	terminal

_"Melissa has been eating from her couch cushions for—"_

 

What the actual fuck?

 

_"Breaking news as a crash on the I-90 causes a major pileup—"_

 

Ugh. No.

 

_"This is a limited time offer, so buy it. Buy it no—"_

 

Jesus Christ, fuck off.

 

_"No puedo creer que hayas hecho esto, y—"_

 

What?

 

Dean's thumb clicks against the crusted-together buttons of the motel television remote to advance the channels, all twenty two of which seem to suck ass at the very moment. Figures: he should know better than to try to find something other than public access mumbo jumbo and weather reports on TV at seven o'clock at night on a Tuesday in butt-fucking Livingston, Montana. But what else is he supposed to do? Hunt something? Save the world again? Read some lore?

 

No, Dean feels as useless as a sack of potatoes right now as he sits propped up by four pillows atop the bed (that's probably stained with god knows what...fuck Sam and his ass-o'clock-in-the-morning _Dateline_ marathons). The man can't even masturbate—to much work with too little gain—and his sentient dildo is out being productive or something. Honestly, Dean wasn't really listening when Sam said he was going out as he was far too preoccupied with the laptop on his lap at the time and the way his lover's lips felt against his forehead and his midsection...shit, where the hell are those lips, anyway?

 

Granted, he wasn't exactly paying attention to Sam when he left so he didn't catch the bit when he said when he would return to the motel and cuddle his pouty ass; but he's starting to worry and wonder where his boyfriend is. Apparently his thoughts resonate with someone else, because Dean groans in surprise when his and Sam's baby decides to kick where his hand is pressed against his stomach. No matter how uncomfortable the kicks are becoming as their little monster grows, Dean can't help but tack on a laugh to the end of his grunt of annoyance.

 

"If you're wonderin' where your dad is, don't ask me, kiddo," he murmurs downward toward his belly. "He's probably bein' productive and smart and charming 'n all that junk. Meanwhile, I'm incubating. No offense."

 

Since the start of this hell called pregnancy, the oldest Winchester has become hyper aware of just about everything: sounds, smells ( _flatulence results in eviction_ , he tells Sam at bedtime), sensations, and even thoughts he'd rather not be so vigilant about. He dwells on the idea of looking through the TV channels again when he remembers the breaking news report about a crash on the highway...

 

In an instant, he's wobbling to his feet and hustling over to the edge of the bed so he can be nearer to the rabbit ears television before thumbing the ancient idiot box on and switching to the local news channel. Of course, every cat has been rescued from its tree and no bicycles have been stolen so this small town has nothing more interesting to report than this, so a pileup all but has its own fucking _channel_. Dean's not too focused on the numbers or anything but instead focuses his attention on the background behind the reporter, where he looks for the unmistakable body of a '67 Chevy Impala. His palms are slick with sweat and his eyes are pulsing green with worry and, even though he doesn't see his beloved car, he can't stop the worries from taking over his head.

 

What if Sam got caught in the collision? What if his car is totaled with him _inside_ it? What if he's stuck in the wreckage? What if he's dead? What if—

 

Dean's worries are cut short by the sound of the door swinging open and a high pitched whistling. He whips his head toward the sound and his body relaxes entirely when he's greeted by the sight of his lover, who's alive and well, shaking the water from his hair and shivering from the cold and icy air outside. Sam is sopping wet from the rain and looks absolutely freezing, but he's okay, and that's all that matters.

 

The brunet sees his boyfriend staring at him with wide eyes and he pauses to close the door while beginning his explanatory speech.

 

"It's like the damn rapture out there. 'm pretty sure it started hailin' for a few minutes, and—"

 

He's cut off by the feeling of warmth against his damp clothes and Dean's head resting against his chest as the blond's arms wrap around his torso. Though surprised, Sam hugs him back and kisses the crown of his head, hands rubbing up and down his back. Dean's shirt is wet now as well, but he doesn't care in the slightest.

 

Sam doesn't quite understand the gravity of the moment, that it's not one of their usual "honey, I'm home!" moments, until he lifts his eyes and stops himself from absentminded inhaling the scent of Dean's hair—he had used his pillow as a plate for his peanut butter cups and used the complimentary lavender shampoo left in a pathetically miniature bottle on the crusty bathroom countertop the last night—only to catch a glimpse of the reporter onscreen detailing the crash report. His gaze softens and he somehow guides Dean back to the bed without the blond so much as changing his breathing pattern.

 

As soon as he reclines back against the headboard with Dean in his arms, the elder wraps his long limbs around his lover's torso and legs like a spider monkey. Sam reaches for the remote and flicks the TV off, the screen turning to black as Dean's green eyes travel up his chest to meet his own sunflower-colored ones.

 

"I thought somethin' bad happ'ned to 'ya," Dean murmurs into the damp shirt sticking to Sam's trunk.

 

Sam applies pressure to all the places he can reach where he knows Dean carries his stress, focusing especially on the middle of his back and his deltoids. The imbalance of weight centered on his middle as of late has made standing for long periods of time uncomfortable, Sam knows, but Dean refuses to admit it does so and instead saves his discomfort until later when he can complain to Sam's listening ears.

 

Typical Dean.

 

"I know. 'm sorry, De," Sam whispers and shifts slightly under Dean's weight. Yeah, he'll definitely be the one sleeping on the right side of the bed tonight—the side he dampened with his rain-drenched state of being—but it's not like they stay on 'their' sides for very long during the night, anyway. It's usually a natural selection, every-man-for-himself kind of deal when it comes to who gets more space, and Sam has let Dean win for the past seven-ish months (obviously, 'cause he's not cruel).

 

Dean huffs and gestures down at his swollen stomach. "Y'can't do this shit, Sammy—'m fuckin' _terminal_ over here."

 

"That's...I'm about ninety nine percent sure that's not what the last stages of pregnancy are called." Sam taps patterns into Dean's back. The man whines at the sensation and tries to wrinkle his eyebrows in protest but fails, only looking ten times as adorable to Sam. "And I won't. I promise. Look 'ere: 'm fine. You're fine. And—" He stops to cup his hand over Dean's midsection. "—lil' monster's fine, too."

 

Yeah, that nickname happened to come up when they decided to be 'surprised' as new parents say. Dean just couldn't ditch the "who fuckin' cares—I'll love the kid regardless, gimme my folic acid" mentality at the OB/GYN. Dean doesn't like it, but he sure as hell doesn't not like it.

 

Dean pauses, considering Sam's words and seemingly accepting them before looking up with a questioning smirk. "'nd my car?"

 

"She's fine too, 'ya jerk," Sam laughs and kisses his lover's forehead. "'m cold. Shower with me?"

 

"Sure, just don't fuckin' belt out Celine Dion this time, Bitch."

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed this installment of my ‘series:’ “what the fuck does hayden think he’s doing?!” copyright pending☺︎


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